Lies and Daydreams
(Inspiration)
It's been three days since we both broke up. Both broke down. Like machines that had passed their prime, tossed into a closet to rot til they're relics. A jumble of arms and anathemas.
I sit silently, staring at the television screen. I don't know what's on. I don't care. I stare because it's my only support. It's my anchor. If I turn away, I'll dissolve. Again. There are already too many pieces of me scattered on the floor. Shards of human glass, waiting to slice the first one of us to rise to the occasion. We both sit still.
Three days, and still we're depressed. Some people actually find breakups liberating.
Some people fall out of love.
Her hand is in mine. Her head resting against my shoulder. Collapsed against my shoulder, there because nothing else is so soft, has ever been so soft, on a thing so hard. I stroke her hair like a villain strokes his cat. Like a madman with a doll.
Is the TV even on? What am I watching? Images pass before my eyes, but dreams, daydreams and lies are all so similar. Why make a distinction?
Three days, and still no rescue. Stranded on a couch, her warmth my only source of sustenance. Her hair my raincoat. Her lips my breath.
A voice breaks the silence, like laughter at a funeral. It's hard to hear, harder to say, the words a spoken sigh.
"Do you love me?"
"Hm?"
"Do you love me?"
"Like a boy loves his dog."
"So I'm your bitch?"
We laugh. Wry, mirthless sounds, but relieving all the same. Silence regains its hold. My hand considers making a familiar descent, but I don't even have the energy for that. It's all empty anyway. I continue staring.
"I'd die for you."
"Don't say that."
"I would."
"Like you tried for her?"
"That was different. It wasn't her fault."
"You know that's not what she thinks."
"Well it doesn't matter what she thinks now."
"Did it ever?"
"Fuck you."
"That certainly didn't help."
"Ha ha. She knew about us. I never tried to hide you."
"Maybe you should have."
Maybe I should have.
"I love you."
"And you didn't love her?"
"You know it's different. You're like... a part of me."
"And what was she?"
"Everything else."
A pause.
"And you can't love yourself forever..."
We both speak the last line together. We know the conversation by heart. I continue staring into space, stroking her hair, still alone. Alone with lies, daydreams, and you.
It's been three days since we both broke up. Both broke down. Like machines that had passed their prime, tossed into a closet to rot til they're relics. A jumble of arms and anathemas.
I sit silently, staring at the television screen. I don't know what's on. I don't care. I stare because it's my only support. It's my anchor. If I turn away, I'll dissolve. Again. There are already too many pieces of me scattered on the floor. Shards of human glass, waiting to slice the first one of us to rise to the occasion. We both sit still.
Three days, and still we're depressed. Some people actually find breakups liberating.
Some people fall out of love.
Her hand is in mine. Her head resting against my shoulder. Collapsed against my shoulder, there because nothing else is so soft, has ever been so soft, on a thing so hard. I stroke her hair like a villain strokes his cat. Like a madman with a doll.
Is the TV even on? What am I watching? Images pass before my eyes, but dreams, daydreams and lies are all so similar. Why make a distinction?
Three days, and still no rescue. Stranded on a couch, her warmth my only source of sustenance. Her hair my raincoat. Her lips my breath.
A voice breaks the silence, like laughter at a funeral. It's hard to hear, harder to say, the words a spoken sigh.
"Do you love me?"
"Hm?"
"Do you love me?"
"Like a boy loves his dog."
"So I'm your bitch?"
We laugh. Wry, mirthless sounds, but relieving all the same. Silence regains its hold. My hand considers making a familiar descent, but I don't even have the energy for that. It's all empty anyway. I continue staring.
"I'd die for you."
"Don't say that."
"I would."
"Like you tried for her?"
"That was different. It wasn't her fault."
"You know that's not what she thinks."
"Well it doesn't matter what she thinks now."
"Did it ever?"
"Fuck you."
"That certainly didn't help."
"Ha ha. She knew about us. I never tried to hide you."
"Maybe you should have."
Maybe I should have.
"I love you."
"And you didn't love her?"
"You know it's different. You're like... a part of me."
"And what was she?"
"Everything else."
A pause.
"And you can't love yourself forever..."
We both speak the last line together. We know the conversation by heart. I continue staring into space, stroking her hair, still alone. Alone with lies, daydreams, and you.
posted by Ophelia at 10:34 AM
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